The Billionaire Bad Boys Club (7 page)

“I—”

“Shush,” Trey repeated before he could stammer. “New rules are I get to say what I like when I’m fucking you.”

“You’re not fucking me yet,” Zane returned weakly.

Trey leaned down to nip his shoulder. “Hairsplitter,” he mocked him.

He drew his hands to Zane’s ass, pulling his cheeks apart. “Push out a little,” he said. “My cock is wider than my fingers.”

It was wider, but by God it felt good. Being taken was different than being the one in charge. Something in Zane, something not of the body, felt like it was giving way. He was trusting Trey, more than he ever had before. Maybe it should have alarmed him, but that pleasure was as intense as the rigid pole pushing into him. Trey obviously liked penetrating him. Zane heard the hitch in his breathing, the little moan of bliss that caught in his throat.

“Okay,” Trey panted, once he was halfway in. “Your erection might flag a little, but trust me it will come back.”

Caught beneath the Chesterfield’s soft roll arm, Zane’s erection was solid as granite. “Um,” he said, “I think my libido is skipping past that part.”

He arched to take more of Trey, the shift in angle allowing the other man to glide in all the way. That felt so awesome they moaned in chorus.

“You okay?” Trey panted.

“Yes.” Zane couldn’t help squirming. Stretched by Trey’s huge erection, he couldn’t decide if his back passage itched or just felt wonderful. “You?”

Trey’s ragged breathing broke up his laugh. “My tattoo stings a little. It’s really making me hot.”

Him saying so made Zane’s toes dig into the plush carpet. He swung one arm back to latch onto Trey’s hip. “Please don’t wait. Please fuck me right away.”

Trey trailed his fingertips up Zane’s arm. “Okay,” he said, bending to kiss Zane’s shoulder. “You don’t have to hold me, though. I promise I’ll get you where you need to go. Your first time, you should just relax and enjoy.”

Zane let go reluctantly. Leaving everything up to Trey didn’t sit naturally with him. With a quiet grunt of approval, Trey slid one arm beneath Zane’s chest, hugging him firmly for leverage. His other hand gripped the couch cushion. Something about the sight was unbelievably sexy. Their bodies situated, Trey retreated to Zane’s brink. Zane sank his teeth in his lip, dying for the pulsing organ to drive back in.

Trey rocked forward with the perfect amount of
oomph
to push a gasp from him.

Trey didn’t ask Zane if this felt good. Zane wasn’t
his
first, and he knew what he was doing. He repeated the thrust instead, building speed, building force, until Zane’s moans began sounding crazed. Trey had found his prostate. The flare of his glans ran repeatedly over it, the fatter center of his shaft adding a wonderful extra pressure to the proceedings. Zane even liked the smoothness of Trey’s shaven groin slapping him.

“I can . . . rub your cock,” Trey offered, his chest wall tight behind him. “Sometimes taking it in the ass . . . isn’t enough to bring guys off.”

In Zane’s experience, it was always enough for Trey.

“There’s no wrong answer,” Trey assured him when he hesitated. “Ask for . . . whatever seems good to you.”

Zane didn’t get a chance. Trey shifted his legs apart, maybe to improve his balance, or maybe just because. The move stretched Zane’s legs wider. His feet were stuck in the broadened stance, held in place by Trey’s weight and position. The sensation of being trapped heightened his awareness of Trey pumping inside him. Zane’s throat went tight, his lungs struggling to get air fast enough.

Did Trey know what he’d just done to him? If he did, he’d done something to himself as well. His thrusts came harder, his hips slinging jerkily inward. The leather couch cushion creaked from the strength with which he gripped it. He was breathing as raggedly as Zane.

“Hold my cock.” Zane panted out the order, sensing Trey didn’t have much longer. “Hold it . . . really tight and don’t rub.”

Trey released the couch cushion, fumbling under his partner to get a grip on him.

Trey’s fingers tightened and Zane cried out. His next cry was even hoarser, because of course Trey wasn’t satisfied with a simple hold. He’d always been fascinated by Zane’s foreskin. Now he cinched it with thumb and forefinger, forcing the retracted hood back above the flare. He shimmied it around Zane’s glans, pleasure stinging the sharpest nerves he had.

“Take it,” Trey urged, his hips and his voice gone wild. “Fucking take your climax. Fucking come over my fingers.”

Trey’s own words did a number on himself. He shoved hard, his cum flooding Zane with heat. The final jump and swell of his cock pushed against Zane’s prostate.

“Zane!” Trey cried, pulling back two inches and slamming in again.

Zane’s heart thumped a mile a minute, the ache in his lower torso deliciously suspenseful. About to die if he didn’t come, he threw back his head and bucked as hard as he could into Trey’s next thrust.

The orgasm seemed to explode inside his brain.

He spurted over Trey’s fingers, spraying the couch, the rug—hell, maybe half of Boston. This was a colossal ejaculation, more than could be accounted for by the week he’d gone without. Trey had touched off a switch inside him, and possibly in himself. That they’d been fucking each other five years now didn’t seem to matter. The twists and turns of their kinks still had some surprises left.

They both were shaking when Trey sank over him.

“Jesus,” he said, dragging his lax mouth across Zane’s sweat-streaked skin. “Tell me I didn’t hurt you at the end.”

“You didn’t hurt me,” Zane slurred obediently.

Trey pulled out with a groan, dropping from where he was to sit on the floor. “I don’t think I can stand up.”

Without his weight, Zane felt as light as air. He squirmed fully onto the couch, then turned himself around. Trey’s damp dark head was near enough to pet.

“Thank you,” Zane said. He meant for everything: the last five years, tonight, the future they were going to share together. Zane might not have cornered the market on introspection, but he knew this was a rare moment. In this moment, his life was very close to perfect.

As if he sensed his thoughts, Trey drew Zane’s hand down and kissed its palm.

Emotion overwhelmed him. How could he deserve this man? Trey’s kindness alone was humbling, his ability to forgive. Trey never held back his affection, no matter what Zane did. In the face of that, Zane had no right to deny him anything he wanted.

“We could go back to Wilde’s tomorrow,” he offered impulsively. “See if the lobster is fresh yet.”

Trey hesitated for one heartbeat. “No,” he said. “I expect we’ll be too busy to try their food again.”

CHAPTER FOUR

Chef

REBECCA’S
heart pounded way too fast as she opened the passenger door and hopped out of the delivery van. Her head chef Raoul was driving, taking time off to help her. She owed him big for this, especially since—strictly speaking—he didn't work for her anymore. In the back of the van was his strapping son Dominic. They’d double-parked in the financial district, a busy area of Boston that mixed Colonial buildings and skyscrapers. Because Raoul couldn’t leave the wheel, Dominic was helping her offload her two shrink-wrapped six-foot-tall supply carts. Neatly packed onto the steel shelves was everything she needed for today’s menu. She knew this because she’d checked the contents as obsessively as her brother Charlie used to check his backpack for school.

She couldn’t afford to forget anything today. Every detail had to go perfectly.

She wiped sweaty palms on her clean black trousers, then grabbed the back end of the first cart to guide it down the van ramp with Dominic. He grinned at her, a nice kid who adored his talented father and seemed likely to follow in his footsteps. Once the second cart joined the first on the hot sidewalk, he flipped the ramp up and slammed the doors.

“Knock him dead, chef,” Raoul called out the driver’s window. Though they were friends, he often called her that. Coming from him, the title was a cross between “boss” and “hon.”

Grimacing at the butterflies in her stomach, she acknowledged his well wishes with a wave before he drove off. God, she hated being this nervous.

“You’ll be fine,” Dominic assured her like he was sixty and not sixteen. “You’ve done this sort of thing, what, two-and-a-half zillion times?”

“Pipsqueak,” Rebecca retorted as they shoved the carts toward the entrance of TBBC’s corporate headquarters. She might have done this a zillion times, but never with so much riding on the result. “If their kitchen sucks, I’m not letting you forget it for a year.”

The building’s doorman trotted over to open the non-revolving door. His charcoal gray uniform was sharp, his buttons bright enough to blind. Trey Hayworth and TBBC didn’t do anything half-assed. She’d need her A-game to get this job with him.

Inside, the circular air-conditioned lobby was just as intimidating—soaring steel and glass and Carrara marble stretching to a hundred-foot atrium. Her mind boggled at the thought that two Jersey boys who’d barely cracked the age of thirty were responsible for Beantown’s latest architectural marvel. The spread she’d read in
Boston Magazine
claimed the pair had been integral to the design process, and that Hayworth in particular had caught an engineering miscalculation that would have resulted in large stretches of windows popping out in high winds. If she’d been applying for an architectural position, she’d probably have quailed before she set foot inside.

You’re a genius at what you do
, she tried to remind herself.
No one cooks for Bostonians like you.

Unless they did, and she’d been deluded all this time.

The stupid thought sank her stomach. God, please, let her not screw this up. She couldn’t beg that bastard Titcomb to take her back on staff, not if it meant working under the dumbass dickhead he’d hired to be her supposed boss. Titcomb liked the guy because he’d won some reality TV show. However he’d managed that, it wasn’t by cooking well. The only thing sadder than his overworked, over-seasoned dishes was watching him try to impress Wilde’s crew with his “credentials.” She knew the veteran cooks were hoping she’d get this job and could bring them over. Titcomb would be lucky if the new guy didn’t drive him out of business within the year.

Not that she’d be there to see it.

Molars grinding, she pushed her cart beside Dominic’s across the shiny lake of imported stone. The wheels bumped slightly at the lobby’s center where the company’s elegant gold logo was inlaid.

“Ms. Eilert?” said a security guard in a suit. He’d stepped out from behind his desk before they could reach it. He was trim and polite, his wireless earpiece adding to his professional air. “We’re holding the freight elevator for you if you’d like to follow me.”

“See,” Dominic murmured. “No way is this place’s kitchen going to suck.”

Rebecca smiled, amused by his confidence—despite her ability to be neurotic under almost any conditions. Calm at least for the moment, they and their carts made it to the twentieth floor before her palms broke into a sweat again.

She forgot they were damp the moment she caught a glimpse of where she’d be working.

“Whoa,” Dominic said, coming to a halt behind her.

TBBC’s corporate kitchen was a palace. Impeccably equipped, every pot, every burner, every inch of burnished steel worktop was spotless. Rebecca’s entire brigade from Wilde’s could have cooked here with room to spare—assuming she still had a brigade, of course.

“The walk-in is that way,” the suited guard informed her, gesturing toward its door. “Feel free to use anything in it. Mr. Hayworth has cleared his schedule for 1:30. If you suspect your food won’t be ready, please use the phone on the wall to warn his assistant.”

“I don’t think that will be a problem.” Rebecca was slightly breathless from the lovely toys around her.

The guard smiled at her. “Good luck,” he said, exiting politely.

“Am I staying?” Dominic asked, hardly containing his eagerness.

The terms of Rebecca’s tryout allowed her an assistant. She’d been planning to do everything herself. When you had her experience, creating a tasting menu for just one person wasn’t overly difficult. On the other hand, Dominic had sufficient training from his father to carry off simple sauces and fine chopping. Seeing his pleading look, she remembered how eager she’d been to learn when she was his age. If he stayed, she’d have to keep her nerves wrapped up for his sake—which might not be a bad thing.

“You’ll do what I say?” she asked, pointing her sternest chef’s finger. “No getting ‘creative’ with my instructions?”

Practically bouncing, Dominic crossed his heart.

“All right,” she said, swallowing back a surge of adrenaline. “God help me, you’re my sous-chef.”

~

A tasting menu’s purpose was best described as
amuse-gueule
: amusement for the mouth. Small portions kept taste buds in a state of attention, while creative presentation seduced the eyes. Flavors could be subtle, but they had to communicate.
I am basil. I am lamb. Do I not blend magically with my companions?
Ideally, courses took diners on a journey: from surprise to delight, from pungent to delicate. Childhood memories could be evoked or exotic global trips. If food was emotion, a tasting menu was a tale packed with adventure. Creating one proved a chef possessed imagination as well as skill.